


Saccharine

by stephanericher



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 13:00:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5666953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You should try sleeping in sometime. It might make you more agreeable.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saccharine

The few remaining troops are working out in pairs, doing sets at precisely the goal rate, spotting each other with complete accuracy—which is almost totally unnecessary; short of a freak muscle cramp they exercise well within the limits of safety and responsibility. A decent showing, especially considering that Hux had shown up half an hour earlier than he’d said he would (one of the first things he’d learned at the Academy was that scheduled inspections were rarely at the times they were supposed to take place, and that if they were early or late he’d better be just as focused on the task as he’d be if they had been as promised—and it’s a quite effective strategy to use on other officers, lest they forget).

“Sir,” Phasma says, tone icy even filled through the mask.

He nods. “Satisfactory, Captain. Get them outside as you will.”

She nods, and he turns sharply right. The previous night had borne them witness to a freak snowstorm, the weather still warm enough for the flakes to stick in clumps and raise themselves in a new topography above the uneven terrain of Starkiller Base. Hux had had most of the divisions send as many men as they could out in the first wave to clear outdoor paths and pull out the vehicles outside the main hangars before they’d gotten too far buried—but snow is still falling, incessant flakes like shots from the guns of an overpowered custom ship, and Hux has never been so acutely aware of how large the base is. He thinks, ever-so-briefly, of the _Finalizer_ —the air’s clinical space-coldness and not this bitterly capricious wind, the lack of weather or even much of an existence outside the ship itself, the star destroyer’s self-contained nature, the entire environment within his own reach. Hux supposes that he has become too used to that sort of environment, too out-of-touch with organic matter and real land. But as a commanding officer, life on the ground should not be of much concern for him, even now as he so-briefly lives it. He’s here to inspect the weapon and make sure everything is running on schedule, to meet with the officers stationed here and listen to their concerns about the budget, and leave at the end of a week.

There are only three days left, and he’s managed his time well enough that even with the inclement weather he’s been able to address almost everything already. A few monetary concerns remain, but the next meeting is tomorrow afternoon and even outside of his scheduled paperwork time he’s got about three quarters of an hour of slack time before his meeting with the engineers working the oscillator. The best option at the moment is to return to his quarters—either he’ll do the work there or, if he can get settled, take a quick nap.

As soon as he finishes keying in the code to open the door he’s hit with the smell of burnt caf; that firmly takes the nap off the table. Ren’s sitting at the table, bareheaded and barehanded, cup in hand. He throws a glance at Hux, but no greeting—his eyes are still bleary and his motions still a calculable fraction slower than they are when he’s on alert. Cute is not a word that usually comes to Hux’s mind when describing Kylo Ren—and it certainly isn’t now. But he is, perhaps, a bit closer to that word than usual.

“Have you even left the room yet?” says Hux.

“No,” says Ren through a yawn. “You should try sleeping in sometime. It might make you more agreeable.”

“Some of us have to work,” says Hux.

He pours himself a cup of caf; it may smell as if Ren had seared the grounds with his lightsaber (and it probably tastes that way too) but if nothing else, it’s warm enough to feel through his gloves. The container of sugar has been left open next to the pot (Ren’s preference is to pour his cup half full of it so he ends up drinking a stomach-turning syrupy mess instead of caf; Hux prefers his own caf plain); there are grains scattered around it on the table and Hux’s lip curls into a grimace. There might be room in the budget for a droid to follow Ren around and clean up after him—but he’d probably slice it into tiny metal ribbons, either to spite Hux or because it would just happen to be in his way during one of his rages. Nevertheless, Hux takes out the datapad when he sits down—room or not, the budget needs to be balanced. He sips half-cautiously at the caf; it tastes exactly as horrible as it smells.

Ren shifts closer on the couch, his warm breath meeting the side of Hux’s jaw as he leans over to read what’s on the datapad—probably not anything interesting or important to him, but Hux lets him look for a second before speaking.

“I doubt the Supreme Leader sent you here on vacation. Don’t you have training to do?”

“Some of us,” says Ren, a slight note of mocking in his voice, “know how to make flexible schedules.”

“I’m flexible,” says Hux, semi-automatically. “My first meeting went more quickly than anticipated and I visited Phasma’s division half an hour early. I had planned to be starting there right now, actually.”

“You know what I mean,” says Ren.

“I don’t see what’s wrong with being organized,” says Hux.

He returns the majority of his focus to the datapad, to the potential purchasing of new droids and specialized tools and engineering contracts. Ren’s still looking at him, as if attempting to decipher his thoughts without reading his mind. His brow is half-furrowed in concentration; it’s something Ren is forgetting how to hide—the longer he wears the mask, the more transparent he becomes without it. It’s a slight, gradual change, but a noticeable one. Hux turns back to the form. Ren’s not going to wait for him to finish his task when he decides to make his next move, whatever conclusion he draws and wherever he wants to go. Hux immerses himself further in the numbers, calculating and recalculating, initialing the first section and then the second—Ren’s gaze is still heavy, like pressurized air in a ship flown by a very inexperienced pilot, and when he finally moves it draws Hux’s attention like a loud flash across a sensor’s range. Ren’s hand is slowly reaching for his jaw; Hux turns his face to meet it, and waits for Ren’s lips to press against his. He can taste the saccharine syrup clinging to Ren’s mouth, warm and not altogether unpleasant, and he deepens the kiss, touching his tongue to Ren’s teeth. The budget can wait for now.

**Author's Note:**

> hahaha what is hux's pov
> 
> i think this is a little better than the last time i tried it tho. but maybe i'm just under the illusion of comfort


End file.
